THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 
OF  CALIFORNIA 

PRESENTED  BY 

PROF.  CHARLES  A.  KOFOID  AND 
MRS.  PRUDENCE  W.  KOFOID 


POEMS  OF  NATURE 


BY 


JOHN   GREENLEAF  WHITTIER 


3f UuBtratet)  from  Jlature 


BY 


ELBRIDGE    KINGSLEY 


BOSTON  AND   NEW  YORK 
HOUGHTON,  MIFFLIN  AND   COMPANY 
Ctjc  HitorrsiDf  press, 

1886 


Copyright,  1850,  1856,  1860,  1863,  1867,  1872,  1874,  1878,  1883,  and  1884, 
BY  JOHN   G.  WHITTIER. 

Copyright,  1885, 
BY  HOUGHTON,  MIFFLIN   &   CO. 

All  rights  reserved. 


The  Riverside  Press,  Cambridge: 
Electrotyped  and  Printed  by  H.  O.  Houghton  and  Company. 


CONTENTS. 


A   SUMMER   PILGRIMAGE 
THE   THREE   BELLS 


9 

A   MYSTERY          .............  ,3 

STORM   ON   LAKE  ASQUAM         ........  I7 

SUMMER   BY  THE  LAKESIDE         ..........  2I 

A   MEMORY        ..............  3I 

THE   PALATINE  ..............  35 

MOUNTAIN   PICTURES. 

I.   FRANCONIA  FROM  THE  PEMIGEWASSET     ........  43 

II.     MONADNOCK    FROM    WACHUSET      ..........  45 

A    SEA  DREAM         .............  51 

THE  LAKESIDE           .....                 .......  61 

JUNE  ON  THE   MERRIMAC          ..........  65 

THE   LAST  WALK   IN   AUTUMN     ..........  77 

THE  OLD   BURYING-GROUND    ..........  95 


M363140 


LIST  OF  ILLUSTRATIONS. 


PORTRAIT  OF  JOHN  GREENLEAF  WHITTIER.    Etched  by  S.  A.  SCHOFF.    Frontispiece. 

PAGE 

I.    THE  GATEWAY  TO  THE  WHITE  MOUNTAINS i 

And  northward,  leaving  at  my  back 
The  warm  vale  of  the  Mcrrimac, 
I  go  to  meet  the  winds  of  morn, 
Blown  down  the  bill-gaps,  mountain-born, 
Breathe  scent  of  pines,  and  satisfy 
The  hunger  of  a  lowland  eye. 

A  SUMMER  PILGRIMAGE. 

The  view  is  taken  from  Conway  meadows,  overlooking  the  intervales  of  Saco  valley, 
with  Mount  Washington  in  the  distance. 

II.    NIGHT  AFTER  A  STORM  AT  SEA    ...  ....      9 

Beneath  the  low-hung  night  cloud 

That  raked  her  splintering  mast, 
The  good  ship  settled  slowly, 

The  cruel  leak  gained  fast. 

And  ship  to  ship  made  signals, 

Man  answered  back  to  man, 
While  oft,  to  cheer  and  hearten, 

The  Three  Bells  nearer  ran. 

THE  THKEK  BELLS. 

III.  MOUNT   CHOCORUA 13 

The  river  hemmed  with  leaning  trees 

Wound  through  its  meadows  green  / 
A  low,  blue  line  of  mountains  showed 

The  open  pines  between. 

One  sharp,  tall  peak  above  them  all 

Clear  into  sunlight  sprang: 
I  saw  the  river  of  my  dreams, 

The  mountains  that  I  sang! 

A  MYSTERY. 

Chocorua,  one  of  the  most  picturesque  and  individual  of  the  White  Mountain  range, 
rises  above  the  meadows  through  which  the  Bearcamp  flows.  Mr.  Whittier's  summer 
home  was  for  many  years  near  the  foot  of  this  mountain. 

IV.  STORM   ON    LAKE  ASQUAM '7 

And  over  all  the  still  unbidden  sun, 

Weaving  its  light  through  slant-blown  veils  of  rain, 

Smiled  on  the  trouble,  as  hope  smiles  on  pain  ; 
And,  when  the  tumult  and  the  strife  were  done, 


viii  LIST  OF  ILLUSTRATIONS. 

XV.    THE  OLD   BURYING-GROUND .95 

The  dreariest  spot  in  all  tie  land 

To  Death  they  set  apart; 
With  scanty  grace  from  Nature's  hand, 

And  none  from  that  of  Art, 

A  winding  wall  of  mossy  stone, 

Frost-flung  and  broken,  lines 
A  lonesome  acre  thinly  grown 

With  grass  and  wandering  -vines, 

THE  OLD  BURYING-GROUND. 

A  view  taken  from  the  burial-ground  of  Old  Hadley,  in  the  valley  of  the  Connecticut. 


The  Gateway  to  the  White  Mountains. 

And  northward,  leaving  at  my  back 
The  warm  vale  of  the  Merrimac, 
I  go  to  meet  the  winds  of  morn, 
Blown  down  the  hill-gaps,  mountain-born, 
Breathe  scent  of  pines,  and  satisfy 

The  hunger  of  a  lowland  eye. 

A  SUMMER  PILGRIMAGE. 


POEMS  OF  NATURE. 


A   SUMMER   PILGRIMAGE. 

To  kneel  before  some  saintly  shrine, 
To  breathe  the  health  of  airs  divine, 
Or  bathe  where  sacred   rivers  flow, 
The  cowled  and   turbaned   pilgrims  go. 
I   too,  a  palmer,  take,  as  they 
With  staff  and  scallop-shell,  my  way 
To  feel,  from  burdening  cares  and  ills, 
The  strong  uplifting  of  the  hills. 

The  years  are  many  since,  at  first, 
For  dreamed-of  wonders  all  athirst, 
I   saw  on  Winnepesaukee  fall 
The  shadow  of   the  mountain  wall. 
Ah  !  where  are  they  who  sailed  with  me 
The  beautiful  island -studded  sea! 
And  am   I   he  whose  keen  surprise 
Flashed  out  from  such  unclouded  eyes  ? 

Still,  when  the  sun  of  summer  burns, 
My  longing  for  the  hills  returns ; 


A    SUMMER  PILGRIMAGE. 

And  northward,  leaving  at  my  back 
The  warm  vale  of  the  Merrimac, 
I  go  to  meet  the  winds  of  morn, 
Blown  down  the  hill-gaps,  mountain-born, 
Breathe  scent  of  pines,  and  satisfy 
The  hunger  of   a  lowland  eye. 

Again   I   see  the  day  decline 
Along  a  ridged  horizon  line ; 
Touching  the  hill-tops  as  a  nun 
Her  beaded  rosary,  sinks  the  sun. 
One  lake  lies  golden,  which  shall  soon 
Be  silver  in  the  rising  moon  ; 
And  one,  the  crimson  of  the  skies 
And  mountain  purple  multiplies. 

With  the  untroubled  quiet  blends 
The  distance-softened  voice  of  friends  ; 
The  girl's  light  laugh  no  discord  brings 
To  the  low  song   the  pine-tree  sings  ; 
And,  not  unwelcome,  comes  the  hail 
Of  boyhood  from  his  nearing  sail. 
The  human  presence  breaks  no  spell, 
And  sunset  still  is  miracle  ! 

Calm  as  the  hour,  methinks  I   feel 
A  sense  of   worship  o'er  me   steal ; 
Not  that  of  satyr-charming  Pan, 
No  cult  of   Nature  shaming  man, 


A    SUMMER   PILGRIMAGE.  « 

Not  Beauty's  self,  but  that  which  lives 
And  shines  through  all  the  veils  it  weaves,  - 
Soul  of  the  mountain,  lake,  and  wood, 
Their  witness  to  the  Eternal  Good  ! 

And  if,  by  fond   illusion,  here 

The  earth  to  heaven  seems  drawing  near, 

And  yon  outlying  range  invites 

To  other  and  serener  heights, 

Scarce  hid  behind   its  topmost  swell, 

The  shining  Mounts  Delectable  ! 

A  dream  may  hint  of  truth  no  less 

Than  the  sharp  light  of  wakefulness. 

As  through  her  veil  of   incense  smoke 

Of  old  the  spell-rapt  priestess  spoke, 

More  than  her  heathen  oracle, 

May  not  this  trance  of  sunset  tell 

That  Nature's  forms  of   loveliness 

Their  heavenly  archetypes  confess, 

Fashioned  like  Israel's  ark  alone 

From  patterns  in  the  Mount  made  known  ? 

A  holier  beauty  overbroods 
These  fair  and  faint  similitudes  ; 
Yet  not  unblest  is  he  who  sees 
Shadows  of   God's  realities, 
And  knows  beyond  this  masquerade 
Of  shape  and  color,  light  and  shade, 


A    SUMMER   PILGRIMAGE. 

And  dawn  and  set,  and  wax  and  wane, 
Eternal  verities  remain. 

O  gems  of  sapphire,  granite  set ! 

0  hills  that  charmed  horizons  fret ! 

1  know  how  fair  your  morns  can  break, 
In  rosy  light  on  isle  and  lake; 

How  over  wooded  slopes  can  run 
The  noonday  play  of  cloud  and  sun, 
And  evening  droop  her  oriflamme 
Of  gold  and  red  in  still  Asquam. 

The  summer  moons  may  round  again, 
And  careless  feet  these  hills  profane  ; 
These  sunsets  waste  on  vacant  eyes 
The  lavish  splendor  of  the  skies ; 
Fashion  and  folly,  misplaced  here, 
Sigh  for  their  natural  atmosphere, 
And  traveled  pride  the  outlook  scorn 
Of  lesser  heights  than   Matterhorn : 

But  let  me  dream  that  hill  and  sky 
Of  unseen  beauty  prophesy ; 
And  in  these  tinted  lakes  behold 
The  trailing  of  the  raiment  fold 
Of  that  which,  still  eluding  gaze, 
Allures  to  upward  -  tending  ways, 
Whose  footprints  make,  wherever  found, 
Our  common  earth  a  holy  ground. 


THE   THREE    BELLS. 

BENEATH  the  low-hung  night  cloud 
That  raked  her  splintering  mast 

The  good  ship  settled  slowly, 
The  cruel  leak  gained  fast. 

Over  the  awful  ocean 

Her  signal  guns  pealed  out. 

Dear  God  !    was  that  thy  answer 
From  the  horror  round  about  ? 

A  voice  came  down  the  wild  wind, 

"  Ho  !    ship  ahoy  !  "  its  cry  : 
"  Our  stout  Three  Bells  of  Glasgow 
Shall  lay  till  daylight  by ! " 

Hour  after  hour  crept  slowly, 
Yet  on  the  heaving  swells 

Tossed  up  and  down  the  ship-lights, 
The  lights  of   the  Three  Bells  ! 

And  ship  to  ship  made  signals, 
Man  answered   back  to  man, 

While  oft,  to  cheer  and  hearten, 
The  Three  Bells  nearer  ran; 


THE   THREE  BELLS.  " 

And  the  captain  from  her  taffrail 

Sent  down  his  hopeful  cry. 
"Take  heart!     Hold  on!"    he  shouted, 
"  The  Three  Bells  shall  lay  by !  " 

All  night  across  the  waters 

The  tossing  lights    shone  clear; 

All  night  from  reeling  taffrail 
The  Three  Bells  sent  her  cheer. 

And  when  the  dreary  watches 
Of  storm  and  darkness  passed, 

Just  as  the  wreck  lurched  under, 
All  souls  were  saved  at  last. 

Sail  on,  Three   Bells,  forever, 

In  grateful  memory  sail  ! 
Ring  on,  Three  Bells  of  rescue, 

Above  the  wave  and  gale! 

Type  of  the  Love  eternal, 

Repeat  the  Master's  cry, 
As  tossing  through  our  darkness 

The  lights  of  God  draw  nigh! 


Mount  Chocorua. 

The  river  liemmed  with  leaning  trees 
Wound  through  its  meadows  green , 

A  low,  blue  line  of  mountains  showed 
The  open  pines  between. 

One  sharp,  tall  peak  above  them  all 
Clear  into  sunlight  sprang : 

I  saw  the  river  of  my  dreams, 
The  mountains  that  I  sang  ! 

A  MYSTKRY. 


A   MYSTERY. 

THE  river  hemmed  with  leaning  trees 
Wound  through  its  meadows  green ; 

A  low,  blue  line  of   mountains  showed 
The  open  pines  between. 

One  sharp,  tall  peak  above  them  all 
Clear  into  sunlight  sprang  : 

I   saw  the  river  of  my  dreams, 
The  mountains  that   I   sang ! 

No  clew  of  memory  led  me  on, 
But  well  the  ways  I   knew; 

A  feeling  of  familiar  things 
With  every  footstep  grew. 

Not  otherwise  above  its  crag 
Could  lean  the  blasted  pine ; 

Not  otherwise  the  maple  hold 
Aloft  its  red  ensign. 

So  up  the  long  and  shorn  foot-hills 
The  mountain  road  should  creep  ; 

So,  green  and  low,  the  meadow  fold 
Its  red-haired  kine  asleep. 


A    MYSTERY.  15 

The  river  wound  as  it  should  wind ; 

Their  place  the  mountains  took  ; 
The  white  torn  fringes  of  their  clouds 

Wore  no  unwonted  look. 

Yet  ne'er  before  that  river's  rim 

Was  pressed  by  feet  of  mine, 
Never  before  mine  eyes  had  crossed 

That  broken  mountain  line. 

A  presence,  strange  at  once  and  known, 

Walked  with  me  as  my  guide; 
The  skirts  of  some  forgotten  life 

Trailed  noiseless  at  my  side. 

Was  it  a  dim-remembered  dream  ? 

Or  glimpse  through  aeons  old  ? 
The  secret  which  the  mountains  kept 

The  river  never  told. 

But  from  the  vision  ere  it  passed 

A  tender  hope  I    drew, 
And,  pleasant  as  a  dawn  of  spring, 

The  thought  within   me  grew, 

That  love  would  temper  every  change, 

And  soften  all  surprise, 
And,  misty  with  the  dreams  of   earth, 

The  hills  of  Heaven  arise. 


STORM    ON    LAKE  ASQUAM. 

A  CLOUD,  like  that  the  old-time   Hebrew  saw 

On  Carmel  prophesying   rain,  began 

To  lift  itself  o'er  wooded  Cardigan, 
Growing  and  blackening.     Suddenly  a  flaw 

Of  chill  wind  menaced  ;    then  a  strong  blast  beat 
Down  the  long  valley's  murmuring  pines,  and  woke 
The  noon-dream  of  the  sleeping  lake,  and  broke 

Its  smooth  steel  mirror  at  the  mountains'  feet. 

Thunderous  and  vast,  a  fire-veined  darkness  swept 
Over  the  rough  pine-bearded   Asquam  range  ; 
A  wraith  of  tempest,  wonderful  and  strange, 

From  peak  to  peak  the  cloudy  giant  stepped. 

One  moment,  as  if  challenging  the  storm, 

Chocorua's  tall,  defiant  sentinel 

Looked    from    his    watch-tower;    then  the  shadow 

fell, 
And  the  wild  rain -drift  blotted  out  his   form. 

And  over  all  the  still  unhidden  sun, 

Weaving    its    light    through    slant  -  blown    veils    of 
rain, 


STORM  ON  LAKE  ASQUAM.  19 

Smiled  on  the  trouble,  as  hope  smiles  on  pain  ; 
And,  when  the  tumult  and  the  strife  were  done, 

With  one  foot  on  the  lake  and  one  on  land, 
Framing  within  his  crescent's  tinted  streak 
A  far-off  picture  of  the  Melvin  peak, 

Spent  broken  clouds  the  rainbow's  angel  spanned. 


Evening  by  the   Lakeside. 

Yon  mountain  s  side  is  black  with  night, 
While,  broad-orbed,  o'er  its  gleaming  crown 

The  moon,  slow  rounding  into  sight, 
On  the  Jmshed  inland  sea  looks  down. 

How  start  to  light  the  clustering  isles, 

Each  silver-hemmed  !     How  sharply  show 

The  shadows  of  their  rocky  piles, 
And  tree-tops  on  the  wave  below  ! 

SUMMER  BY  THE  LAKESIDE. 


SUMMER   BY   THE    LAKESIDE. 

I.    NOON. 

WHITE  clouds,  whose  shadows  haunt  the  deep, 
Light  mists,  whose  soft  embraces  keep 
The  sunshine  on  the  hills  asleep! 

O  isles  of  calm!--O  dark,  still  wood! 
And  stiller  skies  that  overbrood 
Your  rest  with  deeper  quietude  ! 

0  shapes   and  hues,  dim  beckoning,  through 
Yon  mountain  gaps,  my  longing  view 
Beyond  the  purple  and  the  blue, 

To  stiller  sea  and  greener  land, 

And  softer  lights  and  airs  more  bland, 

And  skies,  -  -  the  hollow  of  God's  hand  ! 

Transfused  through  you,  O  mountain  friends  ! 
With  mine  your  solemn  spirit  blends, 
And  life  no  more  hath  separate  ends. 

1  read  each  misty  mountain  sign, 

I   know  the  voice  of  wave  and  pine, 
And   I   am  yours,  and  ye  are  mine. 


SUMMER  BY  THE  LAKESIDE.  23 

Life's  burdens  fall,  its  discords  cease, 

I  lapse  into  the  glad  release 

Of  Nature's  own  exceeding  peace. 

O,  welcome  calm  of  heart  and  mind  ! 
As  falls  yon  fir-tree's  loosened  rind 
To  leave  a  tenderer  growth  behind, 

So  fall  the  weary  years  away  ; 
A  child  again,  my  head  I  lay 
Upon  the  lap  of  this  sweet  day. 

This  western  wind  hath   Lethean  powers, 
Yon  noonday  cloud   nepenthe  showers, 
The  lake  is  white  with  lotus-flowers ! 

Even   Duty's  voice  is  faint  and  low, 
And  slumberous  Conscience,  waking  slow, 
Forgets  her  blotted  scroll  to  show. 

The  Shadow  which  pursues  us  all, 
Whose  ever-nearing  steps  appall, 
Whose  voice  we  hear  behind  us  call,  - 

That  Shadow  blends  with  mountain  gray, 
It  speaks  but  what  the  light  waves  say,- 
Death  walks  apart  from  Fear  to-day  ! 

Rocked  on  her  breast,  these  pines  and   I 
Alike  on   Nature's  love  rely; 
And  equal   seems  to  live  or  die. 


SUMMER  BY  THE  LAKESIDE.  25 

Assured  that   He  whose  presence  fills 
With  light  the  spaces  of  these  hills 
No  evil  to  his  creatures  wills, 

The  simple  faith  remains,  that   He 
Will  do,  whatever  that  may  be, 
The  best  alike  for  man  and  tree. 

What  mosses  over  one  shall  grow, 
What  light  and  life  the  other  know, 
Unanxious,  leaving  Him  to  show. 

II.    EVENING. 

Yon  mountain's  side  is  black  with  night, 
While,  broad-orbed,  o'er  its  gleaming  crown 

The  moon,  slow-rounding  into  sight, 
On  the  hushed  inland  sea  looks  down. 

How  start  to  light  the  clustering  isles, 

Each  silver-hemmed  !      How  sharply  show 

The  shadows  of  their  rocky  piles, 
And  tree-tops  on  the  wave  below  ! 

How  far  and  strange  the  mountains  seem, 
Dim-looming  through  the    pale,  still  light! 

The  vague,  vast  grouping  of  a  dream, 
They  stretch  into  the  solemn  night. 

Beneath,  lake,  wood,  and  peopled  vale, 

Hushed  by  that  presence  grand  and  grave, 


SUMMER  BY   THE  LAKESIDE.  27 

Are  silent,  save  the  cricket's  wail, 
And  low  response  of  leaf  and  wave. 

Fair  scenes  !    whereto  the  Day  and  Night 

Make   rival  love,   I   leave  ye  soon, 
What  time  before  the  eastern  light 

The  pale  ghost  of   the  setting  moon 

Shall  hide  behind  yon  rocky  spines, 

And  the  young  archer,  Morn,  shall  break 

His  arrows  on  the  mountain  pines, 
And,  golden-sandalled,  walk  the  lake  ! 

Farewell  !    around   this  smiling  bay 

Gay-hearted   Health,  and   Life  in  bloom, 

With  lighter  steps  than  mine,  may  stray 
In  radiant  summers  yet  to  come. 

But  none  shall  more  regretful  leave 
These  waters  and   these  hills  than   I  : 

Or,  distant,  fonder  dream  how  eve 
Or  dawn  is  painting  wave  and  sky  ; 

How  rising  moons  shine  sad  and  mild 
On  wooded   isle  and  silvering  bay  ; 

Or  setting  suns  beyond  the  piled 
And  purple  mountains  lead  the  day ; 

Nor  laughing  girl,  nor  bearding  boy, 

Nor  full-pulsed  manhood,  lingering  here, 


SUMMER  BY  THE  LAKESIDE.  29 

Shall  add,  to  life's  abounding  joy, 

The  charmed  repose  to  suffering  dear. 

Still  waits  kind   Nature  to  impart 
Her  choicest  gifts  to   such   as  gain 

An  entrance  to   her  loving  heart 

Through  the  sharp  discipline  of  pain. 

Forever  from   the   Hand  that  takes 

One  blessing  from  us  others  fall ; 
And,  soon  or  late,  our  Father  makes 

His  perfect  recompense  to  all  ! 

O,  watched  by  Silence  and  the  Night, 
And  folded  in  the  strong  embrace 

Of  the  great  mountains,  with  the  light 
Of  the  sweet  heavens  upon  thy  face, 

Lake  of  the  Northland  !    keep  thy  dower 

Of  beauty  still,   and  while  above 
Thy  solemn  mountains  speak  of  power, 

Be  thou  the  mirror  of  God's  love. 


A  Winter  Storm, 

Here,  vvhile  the  loom  of  Winter  weaves 
The  shroud  of  flowers  and  fountains, 

I  tJiiuk  of  t/iee,  and  summer  eves 
Among  the  Northern  mountains. 

A  MEMORY. 


A   MEMORY. 

HERE,  while  the  loom  of  Winter  weaves 
The  shroud  of  flowers  and  fountains, 

I   think  of    thee,  and  summer  eves 
Among  the  Northern  mountains. 

When  thunder  tolled   the  twilight's  close, 
And  winds   the  lake  were  rude  on, 

And  thou  wert  singing,   Ca    the   Yowes, 
The  bonny  yowes  of   Cluden  ! 

When,  close  and  closer,   hushing  breath, 
Our  circle  narrowed  round  thee, 

And  smiles  and  tears   made  up  the  wreath 
Wherewith  our  silence   crowned  thee ; 

And,  strangers  all,  we   felt  the  ties 

Of  sisters  and  of   brothers  ; 
Ah  !    whose  of  all   those  kindly  eyes 

Now  smile  upon  another's  ? 

The  sport  of  Time,  who  still  apart 

The  waifs  of  life  is  flinging  ; 
Oh,  nevermore  shall  heart  to  heart 

Draw  nearer  for  that  singing  ! 


A    MEMORY.  33 

Yet  when  the  panes  are   frosty-starred, 

And  twilight's  fire  is  gleaming, 
I   hear  the  songs  of   Scotland's  bard 

Sound  softly  through  my  dreaming  ! 

A  song  that  lends  to  winter  snows 

The  glow  of  summer  weather,  - 
Again   I   hear  thee  ca'  the  yowes 

To  Cluden's  hills  of  heather  ! 


yoosQ   erlT 

. 


AVj?  ,ttM\\  \i\ 
^i\\\  A'.' 


THE    PALATINE. 

LEAGUES  north,  as  fly  the  gull   and  auk, 
Point  Judith  watches  with  eye  of  hawk; 
Leagues  south,  thy  beacon   flames,   Montauk 

Lonely  and   wind-shorn,  wood-forsaken, 
With  never  a  tree  for   Spring  to  waken, 
For  tryst  of  lovers  or  farewells  taken, 

Circled  by  waters  that  never  freeze, 
Beaten  by  billow  and  swept  by  breeze, 
Lieth  the  island  of  Manisees, 

Set  at  the  mouth  of  the  Sound  to  hold 
The  coast  lights  up  on  its  turret  old, 
Yellow  with  moss  and  sea-fog  mould. 

Dreary  the  land  when  gust  and  sleet 

At  its  doors  and  windows  howl  and  beat, 

And  Winter  laughs  at  its  fires  of  peat ! 

But  in  summer  time,  when  pool  and  pond, 

Held  in  the  laps  of  valleys  fond, 

Are  blue  as  the  glimpses  of  sea  beyond  ; 


THE  PALATINE.  37 

When  the  hills  are  sweet  with   the  brier-rose, 
And,  hid  in  the  warm,  soft  dells,  unclose 
Flowers  the  mainland  rarely  knows ; 

When  boats  to  their  morning  fishing  go, 
And,  held  to  the  wind  and  slanting  low, 
Whitening  and  darkening  the  small  sails  show,- 

Then  is  that  lonely  island   fair; 

And  the  pale  health-seeker  findeth  there 

The  wine  of  life  in  its  pleasant  air. 

No  greener  valleys  the  sun  invite ; 

On  smoother  beaches  no  sea-birds  light; 

No  blue  waves  shatter  to  foam  more  white  ! 

There,  circling  over  their  narrow  range, 

Quaint  tradition  and  legend  strange 

Live  on  unchallenged,  and  know  no  change. 

Old  wives  spinning  their  webs  of  tow, 

Or  rocking  weirdly  to  and  fro 

In  and  out  of  the  peat's  dull  glow; 

And  old   men   mending  their  nets  of  twine, 
Talk  together  of  dream  and  sign, 
Talk  of  the  lost  ship   Palatine,  - 

The  ship  that    a  hundred  years  before, 
Freighted  deep  with  its  goodly  store, 
In  the  gales  of  the  equinox  went  ashore. 


THE  PALATINE.  39 

The  eager  islanders  one  by  one 

Counted  the  shots  of  her  signal  gun, 

And  heard  the  crash  when  she  drove  right  on  ! 

Into  the  teeth  of  death   she  sped: 
(May  God  forgive  the  hands  that  fed 
The  false  lights  over  the  rocky   Head  !) 

O  men  and  brothers  !   what  sights  were  there ! 
White,  upturned  faces,  hands  stretched  in  prayer! 
Where  waves  had  pity,  could  ye  not  spare  ? 

Down  swooped  the  wreckers,  like  birds  of  prey, 
Tearing  the  heart  of   the  ship  away, 
And  the  dead  had  never  a  word  to  say. 

And  then,  with  ghastly  shimmer  and  shine, 
Over  the  rocks  and  the  seething  brine, 
They  burned  the  wreck  of  the   Palatine. 

In  their  cruel  hearts,  as  they  homeward  sped, 
"  The  sea  and  the  rocks  are  dumb,"  they  said ; 
"  There  '11  be  no  reckoning  with  the  dead." 

But  the  year  went  round,  and  when  once  more 
Along  their  foam-white  curves  of   shore 
They  heard  the  line-storm  rave  and  roar, 

Behold  !    again,  with  shimmer  and  shine, 
Over  the  rocks  and  the  seething  brine, 
The  flaming  wreck  of   the  Palatine  ! 


THE  PALATINE.  41 

So,  haply  in  fitter  words  than  these, 
Mending  their  nets  on  their  patient  knees, 
They  tell  the  legend  of    Manisees. 

Nor  looks  nor  tones  a  doubt  betray; 

"It  is  known   to  us   all,"  they  quietly  say; 

"  We  too  have  seen  it  in  our  day." 

Is  there,  then,  no  death  for  a  word  once  spoken  ? 
Was  never  a  deed   but  left  its  token 
Written  on  tables  never  broken  ? 

Do  the  elements  subtle  reflections  give  ? 
Do  pictures  of  all  the  ages  live 
On   Nature's  infinite  negative, 

Which,  half  in  sport,   in  malice  half, 

She  shows  at  times,  with  shudder  or  laugh, 

Phantom  and  shadow   in  photograph  ? 

For  still,  on  many  a  moonless  night, 

From  Kingston  Head  and   from  Montauk  Light 

The  spectre  kindles  and  burns  in  sight. 

Now  low  and  dim,  now  clear  and   higher, 
Leaps  up  the  terrible  Ghost  of  Fire,  - 
Then,  slowly  sinking,  the  flames  expire. 

And  the  wise  Sound  skippers,  though  skies  be  fine, 
Reef  their  sails  when  they  see  the  sign 
Of  the  blazing  wreck  of  the  Palatine ! 


MOUNTAIN    PICTURES. 
I. 

FRANCONIA    FROM    THE    PEMIGEWASSET. 

ONCE  more,   O   Mountains  of  the   North,  unveil 
Your  brows,  and  lay  your  cloudy  mantles  by ! 

And  once  more,  ere  the  eyes  that  seek  ye  fail, 
Uplift  against   the  blue  walls  of  the  sky 

Your  mighty  shapes,  and  let  the  sunshine  weave 
Its  golden  network  in  your  belting  woods, 
Smile  down  in  rainbows  from  your   falling   floods, 

And  on  your  kingly  brows  at  morn  and  eve 
Set  crowns  of  fire  !     So  shall  my  soul  receive 

Haply  the  secret  of  your  calm  and  strength, 
Your  unforgotten  beauty   interfuse 
My  common  life,  your  glorious   shapes  and  hues 
And  sun-dropped   splendors  at  my  bidding  come, 
Loom  vast  through  dreams,  and   stretch  in  billowy 
length 

From  the  sea-level  of  my  lowland  home  ! 

They  rise  before   me!     Last  night's  thunder-gust 
Roared  not  in  vain  ;  for  where  its  lightnings  thrust 
Their  tongues  of  fire,  the  great  peaks  seem  so  near, 
Burned   clean  of  mist,  so  starkly  bold  and  clear, 
I    almost  pause  the  wind  in  the  pines  to  hear, 


MOUNTAIN  PICTURES.  45 

The  loose  rock's  fall,  the  steps  of  browsing  deer. 
The  clouds  that  shattered  on  yon  slide-worn  walls, 

And  splintered  on  the  rocks  their  spears  of  rain, 
Have  set  in  play  a  thousand  waterfalls, 
Making  the  dusk  and  silence  of  the  woods 
Glad  with  the   laughter  of  the  chasing  floods, 
And  luminous  with  blown  spray  and  silver  gleams, 
While,  in  the  vales  below,  the  dry-lipped  streams 

Sing  to  the  freshened    meadow-lands  again. 
So,  let  me  hope,  the  battle-storm  that  beats 

The  land  with  hail  and   fire  may  pass  away 

With  its  spent  thunders  at  the  break  of  day, 
Like  last  night's  clouds,  and  leave,  as  it  retreats, 
A  greener  earth  and  fairer  sky   behind, 
Blown  crystal-clear   by  Freedom's   Northern  wind! 


ii. 

MONADNOCK   FROM    WACHUSET. 


I   WOULD   I   were  a  painter,  for   the  sake 
Of  a  sweet  picture,  and  of  her  who  led, 
A  fitting  guide,  with   reverential   tread, 
Into  that  mountain   mystery.      First,  a  lake 
Tinted  with  sunset ;    next,  the  wavy  lines 

Of  far  receding  hills  ;    and  yet  more  far, 
Monadnock  lifting  from  his   night  of  pines 

His  rosy  forehead  to   the  evening  star. 
Beside  us,  purple-zoned  Wachuset  laid 
His  head  against  the  West,  whose  warm  light  made 
His  aureole  ;    and  o'er  him,  sharp  and  clear, 


MOUNTAIN  PICTURES.  47 

Like  a  shaft  of  lightning  in  mid-launching  stayed, 
A  single  level  cloud-line,  shone  upon 
By  the  fierce  glances  of  the  sunken  sun, 

Menaced  the  darkness  with  its  golden  spear  ! 

So  twilight  deepened  round  us.      Still  and  black 
The  great  woods  climbed  the  mountain  at  our  back ; 
And  on  their  skirts,  where  yet  the  lingering  day 
On  the  shorn  greenness  of  the   clearing  lay, 

The  brown  old  farmhouse  like  a  bird's-nest  hung. 
With  home-life  sounds  the  desert  air  was  stirred: 
The  bleat  of  sheep  along  the  hill  we  heard, 
The  bucket  plashing  in  the  cool,  sweet  well, 
The  pasture-bars  that  clattered  as  they  fell  ; 
Dogs  barked,  fowls  fluttered,  cattle  lowed  ;    the  gate 
Of  the  barn-yard  creaked  beneath  the  merry  weight 

Of  sun-brown  children,  listening,  while  they  swung, 
The  welcome  sound  of  supper-call  to  hear; 
And  down  the  shadowy  lane,  in  tinklings  clear, 

The  pastoral   curfew  of  the  cow-bell  rung. 
Thus  soothed  and  pleased,  our  backward  path  we  took, 

Praising  the  farmer's  home.      He  only  spake, 

Looking  into  the  sunset  o'er  the  lake, 

Like  one  to  whom  the  far-off  is  most  near: 
"  Yes,  most  folks  think  it  has  a  pleasant  look  ; 

I   love  it  for  my  good  old  mother's  sake, 

Who  lived  and  died  here  in  the  peace  of  God  ! 

The  lesson  of  his  words  we  pondered  o'er, 
As  silently  we  turned  the  eastern  flank 


MOUNTAIN  PICTURES.  49 

Of  the  mountain,  where  its  shadow  deepest  sank, 
Doubling  the  night  along  our  rugged  road  : 
We  felt  that  man  was  more  than  his  abode,  - 

The  inward  life  than   Nature's  raiment  more; 
And  the  warm  sky,  the  sundown-tinted  hill, 

The  forest  and  the  lake,  seemed  dwarfed  and  dim 
Before  the  saintly  soul,  whose  human  will 
Meekly  in  the  Eternal  footsteps  trod, 
Making  her  homely  toil  and  household  ways 
An  earthly  echo  of  the  song  of   praise 

Swelling  from  angel  lips  and  harps  of  seraphim. 


A  SEA  DREAM. 

WE  saw  the  slow  tides  go  and  come, 
The  curving  surf-lines  lightly  drawn, 

The  gray  rocks  touched  with  tender  bloom 
Beneath  the  fresh-blown  rose  of  dawn. 

We  saw  in  richer  sunsets  lost 

The  sombre  pomp  of  showery  noons; 

And  signalled  spectral  sails  that  crossed 
The  weird,  low  light  of  rising  moons. 

On  stormy  eves  from  cliff  and  head 

We  saw  the  white  spray  tossed  and  spurned; 

While  over  all,  in  gold  and  red, 

Its  face  of  fire  the  lighthouse  turned. 

The  rail-car  brought  its  daily  crowds, 

Half  curious,  half  indifferent, 
Like  passing  sails  or  floating  clouds, 

We  saw  them  as  they  came  and  went. 

But,  one  calm  morning,  as  we  lay 
And  watched  the  mirage-lifted  wall 

Of  coast,  across  the  dreamy  bay, 
And  heard  afar  the  curlew  call, 


A   SEA    DREAM.  53 

And  nearer  voices,  wild  or  tame, 
Of  airy  flock  and  childish  throng, 

Up  from  the  water's  edge  there  came 
Faint  snatches  of  familiar  song. 

Careless  we  heard  the  singer's  choice 
Of  old  and  common  airs ;    at  last 

The  tender  pathos  of  his  voice 
In  one  low  chanson  held  us  fast. 

A  song  that  mingled  joy  and  pain, 
And  memories  old  and  sadly  sweet; 

While,  timing  to  its  minor  strain, 
The  waves  in  lapsing  cadence  beat. 


The  waves  are  glad  in  breeze  and  sun ; 

The  rocks  are  fringed  with  foam  ; 
I  walk  once  more  a  haunted  shore, 

A  stranger,  yet  at  home,  - 

A  land  of  dreams  I   roam. 

Is  this  the  wind,  the  soft  sea-wind, 
That  stirred   thy  locks  of  brown  ? 

Are  these  the  rocks  whose  mosses  knew 
The  trail  of  thy  light  gown, 
Where  boy  and  girl  sat  down  ? 


A    SEA    DREAM.  55 

I   see  the  gray  fort's  broken  wall, 

The  boats  that  rock  below  ; 
And,  out  at  sea,  the  passing  sails 

We  saw  so  long  ago 

Rose-red  in  morning's  glow. 

The  freshness  of  the  early  time 

On  every  breeze  is  blown  ; 
As  glad  the  sea,  as  blue  the  sky, — 

The  change  is  ours  alone; 

The  saddest  is  my  own. 

A  stranger  now,  a  world-worn  man, 

Is  he  who  bears  my  name  ; 
But  thou,  methinks,  whose  mortal  life 

Immortal  youth  became, 

Art  evermore  the  same. 

Thou  art  not  here,   thou   art  not  there, 

Thy  place   I   cannot  see  ; 
I   only  know  that  where  thou  art 

The  blessed   angels  be, 

And  heaven  is  glad  for  thee. 

Forgive  me  if   the  evil  years 

Have  left  on  me  their  sign  ; 
Wash  out,   O  soul  so  beautiful, 

The  many  stains  of   mine 

In  tears  of  love  divine! 


A    SEA    DREAM.  57 

I   could  not  look  on  thee  and  live, 

If  thou  wert  by  my  side; 
The  vision  of   a  shining  one, 

The  white  and  heavenly  bride, 

Is  well  to  me   denied. 

But   turn  to  me  thy  dear  girl-face 

Without  the  angel's  crown, 
The  wedded  roses  of   thy  lips, 

Thy  loose  hair  rippling  down 

In  waves  of  golden  brown. 

Look  forth  once   more  through  space  and  time, 

And  let  thy  sweet  shade  fall 
In  tenderest  grace  of   soul  and  form 

On  memory's  frescoed  wall. 

A  shadow,  and  yet  all  ! 

Draw  near,  more  near,  forever  dear  ! 

Where'er  I   rest  or  roam, 
Or  in  the  city's  crowded  streets, 

Or  by  the  blown  sea  foam, 

The  thought  of  thee  is  home  ! 


At  breakfast  hour  the  singer  read 
The  city  news,  with  comment  wise, 

Like  one  who  felt  the  pulse  of  trade 
Beneath  his  finger  fall  and  rise. 


A   SEA    DREAM.  59 

His  look,  his  air,  his  curt  speech,  told 
The  man  of  action,  not  of  books, 

To  whom  the  corners  made   in  gold 

And  stocks  were  more  than  seaside  nooks. 

Of  life  beneath  the  life  confessed 

His  song  had  hinted  unawares; 
Of  flowers  in  traffic's  ledgers  pressed, 

Of  human  hearts  in  bulls  and  bears. 

But  eyes  in  vain  were  turned  to  watch 

That  face  so  hard  and  shrewd  and  strong  ; 

And  ears  in  vain  grew  sharp  to  catch 
The  meaning  of  that  morning  song. 

In  vain  some  sweet-voiced  querist  sought 
To  sound  him,  leaving  as  she  came ; 

Her  baited  album  only  caught 
A  common,  unromantic  name. 

No  word  betrayed  the  mystery  fine 
That  trembled  on  the  singer's  tongue; 

He  came  and  went,  and  left  no  sign 
Behind  him,  save  the  song  he  sung. 


THE    LAKE-SIDE. 

THE  shadows  round  the  inland  sea 

Are  deepening  into  night ; 
Slow  up  the  slopes  of  Ossipee 

They  chase  the  lessening  light. 
Tired  of  the  long  day's  blinding  heat, 

I   rest  my  languid  eye, 
Lake  of  the   Hills!    where,  cool  and  sweet, 

Thy  sunset  waters  lie! 

Along  the  sky,  in  wavy  lines, 

O'er  isle  and   reach  and  bay, 
Green-belted  with  eternal  pines, 

The  mountains  stretch  away. 
Below,  the  maple  masses  sleep 

Where  shore  with  water  blends, 
While  midway  on  the  tranquil  deep 

The  evening  light  descends. 

So  seemed  it  when  yon  hill's  red  crown, 

Of  old,  the  Indian  trod, 
And,  through  the  sunset  air,  looked  down 

Upon  the  Smile  of  God. 
To  him  of  light  and  shade  the  laws 

No  forest  sceptic  taught; 


THE  LAKE-SIDE.  63 

Their  living  and  eternal  Cause 
His  truer  instinct  sought. 

He  saw  these  mountains  in  the  light 

Which  now  across  them  shines  ; 
This  lake,  in  summer  sunset  bright, 

Walled  round  with  sombering  pines. 
God  near  him  seemed  ;  from  earth  and  skies 

His  loving  voice  he  heard, 
As,  face  to  face,   in   Paradise, 

Man  stood  before  the   Lord. 

Thanks,  O  our  Father  !    that,  like  him,    „ 

Thy  tender  love  I   see, 
In  radiant  hill  and  woodland  dim, 

And  tinted  sunset  sea. 
For  not  in  mockery  dost  thou  fill 

Our  earth  with   light  and  grace; 
Thou  hid'st  no  dark  and  cruel  will 

Behind   thy  smiling  face! 


JUNE    ON    THE    MERRIMAC. 

O  DWELLERS  in  the  stately  towns, 

What  come  ye  out  to  see  ? 
This  common   earth,  this  common  sky, 

This  water  flowing  free  ? 

As  gayly  as  these  kalmia  flowers 
Your  dooryard  blossoms  spring; 

As  sweetly  as  these  wild-wood  birds 
Your  cag&d  minstrels  sing. 

You  find  but  common  bloom  and  green, 

The  rippling  river's  rune, 
The  beauty  which  is    everywhere 

Beneath  the  skies  of  June  ; 

The   Hawkswood  oaks,  the  storm-torn  plumes 

Of  old  pine-forest  kings, 
Beneath  whose  century-woven  shade 

Deer  Island's  mistress  sings. 

And  here  are  pictured  Artichoke, 

And  Curson's  bowery  mill ; 
And  Pleasant  Valley  smiles  between 

The  river  and  the  hill. 


JUNE   ON   THE  MERRIMAC.  67 

You  know  full  well  these  banks  of  bloom, 

The  upland's  wavy  line, 
And  how  the  sunshine  tips  with  fire 

The  needles  of  the  pine. 

Yet,  like  some  old  remembered  psalm, 

Or  sweet,  familiar  face, 
Not  less  because  of  commonness 

You  love  the  day  and  place. 

And  not  in  vain  in  this  soft  air 

Shall  hard-strung  nerves  relax, 
Not  all  in  vain  the  o'erworn  brain 

Forego  its  daily  tax. 

The  lust  of  power,  the  greed  of  gain, 

Have  all  the  year  their  own  ; 
The  haunting  demons  well  may  let 

Our  one  bright  day  alone. 

Unheeded  let  the  newsboy  call, 

Aside  the  ledgers  lay  ; 
The  world  will  keep  its  treadmill  step 

Though  we  fall  out  to-day. 

The  truants  of  life's  weary  school, 

Without  excuse  from  thrift, 
We  change  for  once  the  gains  of  toil 

For  God's  unpurchased  gift. 


JUNE   ON   THE  M ERR J MAC.  69 

From  ceiled  rooms,   from  silent  books, 

From  crowded  car  and  town, 
Dear  Mother  Earth,  upon  thy  lap 

We  lay  our  tired  heads  down. 

Cool,  summer  wind,  our  heated  brows ; 

Blue  river,  through  the  green 
Of  clustering  pines,  refresh  the  eyes 

Which  all  too  much  have  seen. 

For  us  these  pleasant  woodland  ways 
Are  thronged  with  memories  old ; 

Have  felt  the  grasp  of   friendly  hands, 
And  heard  love's  story  told. 

A  sacred  presence  overbroods 

The  earth  whereon  we  meet ; 
These  winding  forest-paths  are  trod 

By  more  than  mortal  feet: 

Old   friends  called  from  us  by  the  voice 

Which  they  alone  could  hear, 
From  mystery  to  mystery, 

From  life  to  life,  draw  near. 

More  closely  for  the  sake  of  them 

Each  other's  hands  we  press  ; 
Our  voices  take  from  them  a  tone 

Of  deeper  tenderness. 


JUNE   ON   THE  MERRIMAC.  71 

Our  joy  is  theirs,  their  trust  is  ours, 

Alike  below,  above, 
Or  here  or  there,  about  us  fold 

The  arms  of  one  great  love  ! 

We  ask  to-day  no  countersign, 

No  party  names  we  own  ; 
Unlabelled,  individual, 

We  bring  ourselves  alone. 

What  cares  the  unconventioned  wood 

For  passwords  of  the  town  ? 
The  sound  of  fashion's  shibboleth 

The  laughing  waters  drown. 

Here  cant  forgets  his  dreary  tone, 

And  care  his  face  forlorn  ; 
The  liberal  air  and  sunshine  laugh 

The  bigot's  zeal  to  scorn. 

From  manhood's  weary  shoulder  falls 

His  load  of  selfish  cares; 
And  woman  takes  her  rights,  as  flowers 

And  brooks  and  birds  take  theirs. 

The  license  of  the  happy  woods, 

The  brook's  release  are  ours  ; 
The  freedom  of  the  unshamed  wind 

Among  the  glad-eyed  flowers. 


JUNE  ON  THE  MERRIMAC.  73 

Yet  here  no  evil   thought  finds  place, 

Nor  foot  profane  comes  in  ; 
Our  grove,  like  that  of  Samothrace, 

Is  set  apart  from  sin. 

We  walk  on   holy  ground  ;    above 

A  sky  more  holy  smiles  ; 
The  chant  of  the   Beatitudes 

Swells  down  these  leafy  aisles. 

Thanks  to  the  gracious  Providence 
That  brings  us  here  once  more  ; 

For  memories  of  the  good  behind, 
And  hopes  of  good  before! 

And  if,  unknown  to  us,  sweet  days 

Of  June  like  this  must  come, 
Unseen  of  us,  these  laurels  clothe 

The  river-banks  with  bloom; 

And  these  green  paths  must  soon  be  trod 

By  other  feet  than  ours, 
Full  long  may  annual  pilgrims  come 

To  keep  the  Feast  of   Flowers; 

The  matron  be  a  girl  once  more, 

The  bearded  man  a  boy, 
And  we,  in  heaven's  eternal  June, 

Be  glad  for  earthly  joy! 


THE    LAST   WALK   IN    AUTUMN. 

T. 

O'ER  the  bare  woods,  whose  outstretched  hands 

Plead  with  the  leaden   heavens  in  vain, 
I   see,  beyond  the  valley  lands, 

The  sea's  long  level   dim  with  rain. 
Around  me  all   things,  stark  and  dumb, 
Seem  praying  for  the  snows  to  come, 
And  for  the  summer  bloom  and  greenness  gone, 
With  winter's  sunset  lights  and  dazzling  morn  atone. 

ii. 
Along  the  river's  summer  walk, 

The  withered  tufts  of   asters  nod  ; 
And  trembles  on   its  arid  stalk 

The  hoar  plume  of  the  golden-rod. 
And  on  a  ground  of  sombre  fir, 
And  azure-studded  juniper, 
The  silver  birch  its  buds  of  purple  shows, 
And  scarlet  berries  tell  where  bloomed  the  sweet  wild- 
rose  ! 

in. 

With  mingled  sound  of  horns  and  bells, 
A  far-heard  clang,  the  wild  geese  fly, 

Storm-sent  from  Arctic  moors  and  fells, 
Like  a  great  arrow  through  the  sky, 


THE  LAST   WALK  IN  AUTUMN.  77 

Two  dusky  lines  converged  in  one, 

Chasing  the  southward-flying  sun  ; 
While  the  brave  snowbird  and  the  hardy  jay 
Call  to  them  from  the  pines,  as  if  to  bid  them  stay. 

IV. 

I   passed  this  way  a  year  ago  : 

The  wind  blew  south  ;    the  noon  of  day 
Was  warm  as  June's  ;    and  save  that  snow 

Flecked  the  low  mountains  far  away, 
And  that  the  vernal-seeming  breeze 
Mocked  faded  grass  and  leafless  trees, 
I   might  have  dreamed  of  summer  as   I   lay, 
Watching  the  fallen  leaves  with  the  soft  wind  at  play, 

v. 
Since  then,  the  winter  blasts  have  piled 

The  white  pagodas  of  the  snow 
On  these  rough  slopes,   and,  strong  and  wild, 

Yon  river,  in  its  overflow 
Of  spring-time  rain  and  sun,   set  free, 
Crashed  with  its   ices  to  the  sea  ; 
And  over  these  gray  fields,  then  green  and  gold, 
The    summer    corn    has  waved,   the    thunder's    organ 
rolled. 

VI. 

Rich  gift  of  God!     A  year  of  time! 

What  pomp  of  rise  and  shut  of  day, 
What  hues  wherewith  our  Northern  clime 

Makes  autumn's  dropping  woodlands  gay, 


THE  LAST   WALK  IN  AUTUMN.  79 

What  airs  outblown  from  ferny  dells, 
And  clover-bloom  and  sweetbrier  smells, 
What  songs   of    brooks    and    birds,    what    fruits    and 

flowers, 

Green  woods  and  moonlit  snows,  have    in    its    round 
been  ours! 

VII. 

I   know  not  how,  in  other  lands, 

The  changing  seasons  come  and  go  ; 
What  splendors  fall  on   Syrian  sands, 

What  purple  lights  on  Alpine  snow ! 
Nor  how  the  pomp  of  sunrise  waits 
On  Venice  at  her  watery  gates; 
A  dream  alone  to  me  is  Arno's  vale, 
And  the  Alhambra's  halls  are  but  a  traveller's  tale. 

VIII. 

Yet,  on  life's  current,  he  who  drifts 

Is  one  with  him  who  rows  or  sails; 
And  he  who  wanders  widest  lifts 

No  more  of  beauty's  jealous  veils 
Than  he  who  from  his  doorway  sees 
The  miracle  of  flowers  and  trees, 
Feels  the  warm   Orient  in  the  noonday  air, 
And    from    cloud    minarets    hears    the    sunset  call  to 
prayer ! 

IX. 

The  eye  may  well  be  glad,  that  looks 
Where  Pharpar's  fountains  rise  and  fall ; 


THE  LAST   WALK  IN  AUTUMN.  81 

But  he  who  sees  his  native  brooks 

Laugh  in  the  sun,  has  seen  them  all. 
The  marble  palaces  of   Ind 
Rise  round  him  in  the  snow  and  wind  ; 
From  his  lone  sweetbrier  Persian   Hafiz  smiles, 
And  Rome's  cathedral  awe  is  in  his  woodland  aisles, 

x. 

And  thus  it  is  my  fancy  blends 

The  near  at  hand  and  far  and  rare; 
And  while  the  same  horizon  bends 

Above  the  silver-sprinkled  hair 
Which  flashed  the  light  of  morning  skies 
On  childhood's  wonder-lifted  eyes, 
Within  its  round  of  sea  and  sky  and  field, 
Earth  wheels  with  all  her  zones,  the  Kosmos  stands 
revealed. 

XI. 

And  thus  the  sick  man  on  his  bed, 

The  toiler  to  his  task-work  bound, 
Behold  their  prison-walls  outspread, 

Their  clipped  horizon  widen  round  ! 
While  freedom-giving  fancy  waits, 
Like   Peters  angel  at  the  gates; 
The  power  is  theirs  to  baffle  care  and  pain, 
To  bring  the  lost  world  back,  and  make  it  theirs  again  ! 

XII. 

What  lack  of  goodly  company, 
When  masters  of  the  ancient  lyre 


THE  LAST   WALK  IN  AUTUMN.  83 

Obey  my  call,  and  trace  for  me 

Their  words  of  mingled  tears  and  fire ! 
I   talk  with   Bacon,  grave  and  wise, 
I   read  the  world  with  Pascal's  eyes; 
And  priest  and  sage,  with  solemn  brows  austere, 
And    poets,    garland-bound,  the    Lords    of    Thought, 
draw  near. 


XIII. 


Methinks,  O  friend,   I   hear  thee  say, 

"  In  vain  the  human  heart  we  mock; 
Bring  living  guests  who  love  the  day, 

Not  ghosts  who  fly  at  crow  of  cock  ! 
The  herbs  we  share  with  flesh  and  blood, 
Are  better  than  ambrosial   food, 
With  laurelled  shades."      I   grant  it,  nothing  loath, 
But  doubly  blest  is  he  who  can  partake  of  both. 

XIV. 

He  who  might  Plato's  banquet  grace, 

Have   I   not  seen  before  me  sit, 
And  watched  his  puritanic   face, 

With  more  than   Eastern  wisdom  lit  ? 
Shrewd  mystic  !    who,  upon  the  back 
Of  his  Poor  Richard's  Almanack, 
Writing  the  Sufi's  song,  the  Gentoo's  dream, 
Links    Menu's    age   of    thought    to    Fulton's    age    of 
steam ! 


THE  LAST   WALK  IN  AUTUMN.  85 

XV. 

Here,  too,  of  answering  love  secure, 

Have   I   not  welcomed  to  my  hearth 
The  gentle  pilgrim  troubadour, 

Whose  songs  have  girdled  half  the  earth ; 
Whose  pages,  like  the  magic  mat 
Whereon  the   Eastern  lover  sat, 
Have  borne  me  over  Rhine-land's  purple  vines, 
And    Nubia's    tawny  sands,  and    Phrygia's  mountain 
pines  ! 

XVI. 

And  he  who  to  the  lettered  wealth 
Of  ages  adds  the  lore  unpriced, 
The  wisdom  and  the  moral  health, 

The  ethics  of  the  school  of  Christ; 
The  statesman  to  his  holy  trust, 
As  the  Athenian  archon,  just, 
Struck  down,   exiled   like  him  for  truth  alone, 
Has  he  not  graced  my  home  with  beauty  all  his  own  ? 

XVII. 

What  greetings  smile,  what  farewells  wave, 
What   loved  ones  enter  and  depart ! 

The  good,  the  beautiful,  the  brave, 

The  Heaven-lent  treasures  of  the  heart! 

How  conscious  seems  the  frozen  sod 

And  beechen  slope  whereon  they  trod  ! 


THE  LAST   WALK  IN  AUTUMN.  87 

The  oak-leaves  rustle,  and  the  dry  grass  bends 
Beneath  the  shadowy  feet  of  lost  or  absent  friends. 

XVIII. 

Then  ask  not  why  to   these  bleak  hills 

I   cling,  as  clings  the  tufted  moss, 
To  bear  the  winter's  lingering  chills, 

The  mocking  spring's  perpetual  loss. 
I   dream  of  lands  where  summer  smiles, 
And  soft  winds  blow  from  spicy   isles, 
But  scarce  would  Ceylon's  breath  of  flowers  be  sweet, 
Could   I   not  feel  thy  soil,  New  England,  at  my  feet ! 

XIX. 

At  times   I  long  for  gentler  skies, 

And  bathe  in  dreams  of  softer  air, 
But  homesick  tears  would  fill  the  eyes 

That  saw  the  Cross  without  the   Bear. 
The  pine  must  whisper  to  the  palm, 
The  north-wind   break   the  tropic   calm  ; 
And  with  the  dreamy  languor  of  the   Line, 
The    North's    keen    virtue    blend,    and     strength    to 
beauty  join. 

xx. 

Better  to  stem  with  heart  and  hand 

The  roaring  tide  of  life,  than  lie 
Unmindful,  on  its  flowery  strand, 

Of  God's  occasions  drifting  by  ! 


THE  LAST   WALK  IN  AUTUMN.  89 

Better  with  naked  nerve  to  bear 

The  needles  of  this  goading  air, 
Than,  in  the  lap  of  sensual  ease,  forego 
The  godlike  power  to  do,  the  godlike  aim  to  know. 

XXI. 

Home  of  my  heart !    to  me  more  fair 

Than  gay  Versailles  or  Windsor's  halls, 
The  painted,   shingly   town-house  where 

The  freeman's  vote  for  Freedom  falls  ! 
The  simple  roof  where  prayer  is  made, 
Than   Gothic  groin  and  colonnade; 
The  living  temple  of  the  heart  of  man, 
Than    Rome's    sky -mocking    vault,    or    many -spired 
Milan  ! 

XXII. 

More  dear  thy  equal  village  schools, 

Where  rich  and  poor  the  Bible  read, 
Than  classic  halls  where  Priestcraft  rules, 

And  Learning  wears  the  chains  of  Creed ; 
Thy  glad   Thanksgiving  gathering  in 
The  scattered  sheaves  of  home  and  kin, 
Than  the  mad  license  following  Lenten  pains, 
Or  holidays  of  slaves  who  laugh  and  dance  in  chains. 

XXIII. 

And  sweet  homes  nestle  in  these  dales, 
And  perch  along  these  wooded  swells; 


THE  LAST   WALK  IN  AUTUMN.  91 

And,  blest  beyond  Arcadian  vales, 

They  hear  the  sound  of  Sabbath  bells! 
Here  dwells  no  perfect  man  sublime, 
Nor  woman  winged  before  her  time, 
But  with  the  faults  and  follies  of  the  race, 
Old  home-bred  virtues  hold  their  not  unhonored  place. 

XXIV. 

Here  manhood  struggles  for  the  sake 

Of  mother,  sister,  daughter,  wife, 
The  graces  and  the  loves  which  make 

The  music  of    the  march  of   life; 
And  woman,  in  her  daily  round 
Of   duty,  walks  on  holy  ground. 
No  unpaid  menial  tills  the  soil,  nor  here 
Is  the  bad  lesson  learned    at  human  rights  to  sneer. 

xxv. 

Then  let  the  icy  north-wind  blow 

The  trumpets  of    the  coming  storm, 
To  arrowy   sleet  and  blinding  snow 

Yon  slanting  lines  of    rain  transform. 
Young  hearts  shall   hail  the  drifted  cold, 
As  gayly  as   I   did  of    old ; 

And    I,  who  watch  them  through  the  frosty  pane, 
Unenvious,  live  in  them  my  boyhood  o'er  again. 

XXVI. 

And   I   will  trust  that   He  who  heeds 
The  life  that  hides  in  mead  and  wold, 


THE  LAST   WALK  IN  AUTUMN.  93 

Who  hangs  yon  alder's  crimson  beads, 

And  stains  these  mosses  green  and  gold, 
Will  still,  as  He  hath  done,  incline 
His  gracious  care  to  me  and  mine; 
Grant  what  we  ask  aright,  from  wrong  debar, 
And,  as  the  earth  grows  dark,  make  brighter  every  star  ! 

XXVII. 

I   have  not  seen,   I   may  not  see, 

My  hopes  for  man  take  form  in  fact, 
But  God  will  give  the  victory 

In  due  time;    in  that  faith   I   act. 
And  he  who  sees  the  future  sure, 
The  baffling  present  may  endure, 
And  bless,  meanwhile,  the  unseen   Hand  that  leads 
The  heart's  desires  beyond  the  halting  step  of  deeds. 

XXVIII. 

And  thou,  my  song,   I   send  thee  forth, 

Where  harsher  songs  of  mine  have  flown  ; 
Go,  find  a  place  at  home  and  hearth 

Where'er  thy  singer's  name  is  known  ; 
Revive  for   him  the  kindly  thought 
Of  friends  ;    and  they  who  love  him  not, 
Touched  by  some  strain  of  thine,  perchance  may  take 
The    hand  he    proffers    all,  and    thank    him    for   thy 
sake. 


THE   OLD   BURYING-GROUND. 

OUR  vales  are  sweet  with   fern  and  rose, 

Our  hills  are  maple-crowned  ; 
But  not  from  them  our  fathers  chose 

The  village  burying-ground. 

The  dreariest  spot  in  all  the  land 

To  Death  they  set  apart; 
With  scanty  grace  from  Nature's  hand, 

And  none  from  that  of  Art. 

A  winding  wall  of  mossy  stone, 

Frost-flung  and  broken,  lines 
A  lonesome  acre  thinly  grown 

With  grass  and  wandering  vines. 

Without  the  wall  a  birch-tree   shows 
Its  drooped  and  tasselled  head  ; 

Within,  a  stag-horned  sumach  grows, 
Fern-leafed,  with  spikes  of  red. 

There,  sheep  that  graze  the  neighboring  plain 
Like  white  ghosts  come  and  go; 

The  farmhorse  drags  his  fetlock  chain, 
The  cowbell  tinkles  slow. 


THE  OLD  BURYING-GROUND.  9? 

Low  moans  the  river  from  its  bed, 

The  distant  pines  reply ; 
Like  mourners  shrinking  from  the  dead, 

They  stand  apart  and  sigh. 

Unshaded  smites  the  summer  sun, 

Unchecked  the  winter  blast ; 
The  school-girl   learns  the  place  to  shun, 

With  glances  backward  cast. 

For  thus  our  fathers  testified,  - 

That  he  might  read  who  ran,  - 
The  emptiness  of  human  pride, 

The  nothingness  of  man. 

They  dared  not  plant  the  grave  with  flowers, 

Nor  dress  the  funeral  sod, 
Where,  with  a  love  as  deep  as  ours, 

They  left  their  dead  with  God. 

The  hard  and  thorny  path  they  kept 

From  beauty  turned  aside; 
Nor  missed  they  over  those  who  slept 

The  grace  to  life  denied. 

Yet  still  the  wilding  flowers  would  blow, 

The  golden  leaves  would  fall, 
The  seasons  come,  the  seasons  go, 

And  God  be  good   to  all. 


THE  OLD  BURYING-GROUND.  99 

Above  the  graves  the  blackberry  hung 
In  bloom  and  green  its  wreath, 

And  harebells  swung  as  if  they  rung 
The  chimes  of  peace  beneath. 

The  beauty   Nature  loves  to  share, 

The  gifts  she  hath  for  all,  - 
The  common  light,  the  common  air,  - 

O'ercrept  the  graveyard's  wall. 

It  knew  the  glow  of   eventide, 

The  sunrise  and  the  noon, 
And,  glorified  and  sanctified, 

It  slept  beneath  the  moon. 

With  flowers  or  snowflakes  for  its  sod, 

Around  the  seasons  ran, 
And  evermore  the  love  of  God 

Rebuked  the  fear  of  man. 

We  dwell  with  fears  on  either  hand, 

Within  a  daily  strife, 
And  spectral   problems  waiting  stand 

Before  the  gates  of  life. 

The  doubts  we  vainly  seek  to  solve, 

The  truths  we  know  are  one  ; 
The  known   and  nameless  stars  revolve 

Around  the  Central   Sun. 


THE  OLD  BURYING-GROUND.  101 

And  if  we  reap  as  we  have  sown, 

And  take  the  dole  we  deal, 
The  law  of  pain  is  love  alone, — 

The  wounding  is  to  heal. 

Unharmed  from  change  to  change  we  glide, 

We  fall   as  in  our  dreams  ; 
The  far-off  terror  at  our  side 

A  smiling  angel  seems. 

Secure  on  God's  all-tender  heart 

Alike  rest  great  and  small ; 
Why  fear  to  lose  our  little  part, 

When   He   is  pledged  for  all  ? 

O  fearful  heart  and  troubled  brain  ! 

Take  hope  and  strength  from  this,  - 
That  Nature  never  hints  in  vain, 

Nor  prophesies  amiss. 

Her  wild  birds  sing  the  same  sweet  stave, 

Her  lights  and   airs  are  given 
Alike  to   playground  and   the  grave; 

And  over  both  is  Heaven. 


14  DAY  USE 

RETURN  TO  DESK  FROM  WHICH  BORROWED 

LOAN  DEPT. 


This  book  is  due  on  the  last  date  stamped  below,  or 
on  the  date  to  which  renewed. 
Renewed  books  are  subject  to  immediate  recall. 

4Dsc'64PSi 

" 

j/u-j  9  7  '65  - 

PM 

3  0 

REC'P  LD 

KAR-3'66-5.P 

DEC  1  0  1980    9 

ttCLCIR.  02)29  '80 

LD  21  A-40m-ll,'63                           UniSasSyof  CaUfwnia 
(E1602slO)476B                                         Berkeley 

SOM€TH1NG'OF-TIM€'WH!CH-MAY'1NVIT€ 

TH€>  PURIFIED- tfND'SPIRITUSL- SIGHT 
TO-ReST-ON  •  WITH -A' CALM 


